Chain Reaction

FINAL PAYBACK

When a Stony Man Farm nemesis is suspected in the death of two FBI agents, Mack Bolan gets called into action. The last time Bolan crossed paths with the shadowy criminal organization, he’d annihilated their operations in North Korea. Now the group has brokered a deal that would send weapons-grade uranium to Iran in exchange for a cache of stolen diamonds.

An FBI task force has been working the case for months, but it appears their team is compromised. They need a free agent, someone on the outside who can find the leak and complete the mission. Joining forces with a field operative, Bolan sets off on a shattering cross-continental firefight. Bolan has no choice: he must destroy the criminal conspiracy behind the threat. Once and for all.

Bolan left the cockpit and moved quickly along the cargo area.

Mitchell was pressed against the side of the fuselage. As Bolan reached her, he felt the plane sideslip. The nose began to drop, the aircraft starting to veer off course. They needed to get out fast.

“Now,” he snapped and saw Mitchell’s eyes shining bright. Fear. Her face was white, drained of blood.

She reached out and slid her hands through the straps across his chest, gripping tightly. Bolan grabbed the door release handle and activated it.

As the slipstream caught the edge of the door it was dragged free, swinging back against the exterior fuselage. Bolan felt the powerful drag of air tearing at them. He didn’t fight it, simply let his body fall free.

The slipstream caught them and they were flung away from the plane, bodies helpless as they fell, turning over and over. Bolan heard Mitchell’s scream of pure terror. He concentrated on clearing the aircraft as it wheeled over, free from any control, and then he sensed its bulk swinging overhead….

Chain Reaction

Don Pendleton

When justice is done, it is a joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers.

—Proverbs 21:15

I do what I do not for personal gain, but for true justice. My war is against those who turn their back against civilized society for their own ends.

—Mack Bolan

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

Copyright

PROLOGUE

The big Desert Eagle boomed as the black-clad woman fired twice. Her shots forced Mack Bolan to duck, giving her a few seconds to make a grab for the bag on the table. She caught hold of it in her left hand, pulling it with her as she fired again at Bolan before making a direct run for the window.

The Executioner pushed upright, bringing his submachine gun into target acquisition.

The woman had covered her face with her right arm as she hit the glass. It shattered as she burst through it, long legs powering her forward.

Bolan’s finger stroked the trigger. The P-90 fired its remaining rounds before it locked on empty.

The dark-clad figure twisted to one side as a single slug clipped her left arm. Her grip on the bag slackened and it fell free, hitting the frame of the window and dropping back inside the room.

Then she was gone, in a shower of glass fragments and splintered window frame, landing outside. It seemed she was about to fall but with a supreme effort she righted herself and vanished from sight.

By the time Bolan reached the window she was almost out of sight, dodging between the parked cars. Bolan had other priorities. If he hadn’t, he would have pursued her to find out who she was and the nature of her involvement with the criminal group he knew only as Hegre.

CHAPTER ONE

Jack “Boomer” Rafferty, six foot three and powerfully built, released a string of colorful curses as he worked the wheel of the massive diesel truck and swung it off Route N87. Dust boiled out from beneath the huge tires of the Kenworth “road train” truck as Rafferty took the rig along the soft shoulder, red dust clouding in its wake. Air brakes hissed as the assembly came to a halt. Rafferty pulled on the handbrake and sat back, still cursing to himself. He cracked open the door and hauled his bulk off the seat and out of the cab. As he hit the ground, he felt the blast of superheated air wrap around him. The forty-five-year-old Australian native, his exposed skin burned brown by constant exposure to the sun, still found the extremes of Australian weather challenging. Right now he was also frustrated by the double-blowout in a pair of his rig’s rear tires. He expressed his anger by kicking out at the offending wheels. Both tires on the right-hand set at the rear of his rig were flat, the side walls shredded. Rafferty had never seen the like of this damage before; blowouts were not unheard of, but the extent of the damage to the rubber gave him the impression that someone had deliberately tampered with the tires.

“What the hell, Boomer?”

Rafferty saw the face of his co-driver and partner peering at him from the cab window. Lou Douglas, a leaner, balding version of Rafferty, had a sour expression on his bearded face. He had been taking his turn in the sleeper unit behind the cab. Disturbed by the lack of motion, he had woken and was ready to challenge why the vehicle had stopped.

“Problem, mate,” Rafferty said. “Couple of flats and they don’t look right to me.”

Mumbling to himself, Douglas worked his way forward, then out of the cab. He followed Rafferty’s pointing finger, leaning over to peer at the shredded tires. He moved from one to the other, fingering the shredded rubber. When he turned from his inspection, his weathered face was creased by a disbelieving scowl.

“Those aren’t regular bursts,” he said. “Christ, Boomer, those tires have been shot to ribbons. And I don’t think by accident.”

Rafferty didn’t appear to be listening any longer. He had turned away and was staring skyward. His attention had been taken by the silver-and-blue helicopter swooping in low and landing on the road a couple of hundred yards behind the stalled rig. Red dust spiraled up from the rotor wash, briefly obscuring the helicopter and the men who had climbed out to move quickly in the direction of the rig and its operators.

Four men.

All armed.

They moved to confront Rafferty and Douglas.

Three of the newcomers were holding MP-5 submachine guns. The fourth carried a large, long barreled rifle with a telescopic sight unit attached. A powerful sniping rifle.

The explanation as to how the tires had been shot out, Rafferty realized.

“You’ve got be joking,” Douglas said, his face flushed with anger. “A heist?”

One of the armed men laughed. “Never thought of it like that. Now just take it easy, boys, and we’ll be done in a minute.” He looked toward two of his crew. “Go fetch it. Then we can be out of here.”

Rafferty raged on the inside, but he knew there wasn’t a thing he could do. Not with those autoweapons pointed at him and Douglas. He’d served his time in the Australian Army and he knew the sort of damage the weapons could do; he wasn’t about to risk his life for the cargo he was hauling. He wondered what these men were looking for.

He watched the two walk the length of the train, counting off the container boxes until they reached the one they were looking for. A minute or two later he heard a soft crack of sound and spotted a plume of smoke at the rear of the container. He figured the sealed and secured doors had been breached.

The leader of the hijackers smiled at Rafferty’s expression.

“Working it out, smart boy? I like a man who thinks on his feet.”

“What I can’t figure is what you want. That container is full of dry goods for stores in Alice. Nothing else.”

Rafferty was referring to the town of Alice Springs. Set in the geographic center of Australia, in the Northern Territory, and known as The Alice, it lay around three hours’ drive from their present position and had been the truckers destination for this section of the journey.

“Maybe I collect dry goods,” the man said.

“Don’t bullshit me, mate,” Douglas snapped. “You figure we just fell off the turnip truck?”

“Lou,” Rafferty said. “Just leave it.”

“Do what your mate says.”

Douglas stepped forward, brushing off his partner’s warning hand.

“I’m not listening to this bastard,” he yelled.

Douglas was known for his explosive temper and lack of caution under pressure. It had gotten him into trouble on a number of occasions.

This time it got him more.

“No,” Rafferty yelled, realizing what was about to happen.

Douglas had taken only a few steps, raising his fists, when the MP-5 crackled. The burst was short, sending a volley of steel-jacketed 9 mm slugs into Douglas’s torso. The force of the burst stopped him in his tracks as the bullets cored into his lean body, shattering ribs and tearing through his heart and lungs. Douglas took a step back, eyes suddenly wide with shock. He lost coordination and dropped to the ground, clutching at his punctured chest. He squirmed in short movements before his body shut down. Blood trickled from his slack mouth.

“People never learn,” the shooter said.

Rafferty was frozen, staring between his dead partner and the man who had just murdered him.

The two men who had opened the container appeared, hauling a battered metal box between them. It looked like a well-used tool box. They placed it on the ground.

“That was all we wanted,” the shooter said. “Nothing else.”

“What?”

The shooter grinned. “Bloody hell. You had no idea.” He kicked at the box. “Diamonds. Contraband from the mines up north. You’ve been hauling millions in uncut stones. Put on board your train to be picked up by us. We snatch the box and fly away. By the time the cops show up there’s nothing to find.”

Rafferty felt a chill invade his body. There would be nothing for the police to go on because the only witnesses wouldn’t be able to point a finger. He looked beyond the strip of road. At the wide and empty blue sky and realized it would be the last time he saw it.

“Bloody shame, mate, but that’s the way it goes.”

The MP-5 crackled a second time. Rafferty felt the first impact as the burst of 9-mm slugs entered his body, then he was falling. He hit the ground on his back, eyes seeing the bright day fade into darkness. Then nothing.

“Let’s go, boys,” the shooter said.

The metal box was picked up and the hit team retreated to the idling helicopter. It rose quickly, circling the scene once before it cut off to the west. It flew steadily to its destination where it eventually touched down and the metal box was transferred to a waiting SUV. The team quickly changed into civilian clothing. The pilot took the helicopter back into the air, quickly vanishing from sight.

With practiced coordination the team quickly stripped down their weapons and placed them in a large canvas bag. A deep hole was dug and the weapons buried, along with the clothing they had worn during the hijack. All signs of the buried equipment were obliterated once the hole was refilled. The rear of the SUV was loaded with luggage and cameras all part of the team’s cover as a group of traveling tourists. The metal box was placed underneath the bags.

When everything had been organized, one of the team took the wheel and the SUV was turned around and made its way to the main route back along the highway.

Their destination lay just over two-thousand miles away at the coastal town of Port Hedland. For the next twenty-four hours the team would take turns at the wheel, stopping only for refueling and refreshments. The highway meandered through an empty landscape, with few outposts. Planning had established the places where gas could be obtained. Similarly, every food stop had been marked on the map they carried.

They reached Port Hedland twenty minutes after the anticipated arrival time, midmorning, and parked near the harbor.

Phil Durrant, the team leader, looked out over the water. He spotted the ship he was looking for and pointed it out to his people.

“All ready and waiting for us,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Our boy should be waiting in the café just along the way. Let’s do this.”

The driver backed the SUV into the parking spot next to the café, alongside an older, open-backed and paint-faded Australian-made Holden 4x4. The café’s blue-and-white structure had wide windows overlooking the harbor, and as he climbed out of the SUV Durrant spotted their contact sitting at one of the booths. He leaned back inside the SUV. “Let’s go.”

Durrant turned and made his way into the café, leaving his team to handle the quiet transfer of the metal box into the 4x4, next to the clutter of tools and marine equipment. Durrant made silent contact with the waiting man who would take over the next stage of the delivery.

With the transfer complete the crew entered the café, where they joined Durrant at his table. None of them spoke to the contact man. Durrant and his team ordered food and drink. The contact man finished his own meal before paying at the counter and leaving the café. He climbed into his truck and drove away from the café.

The guy’s name was Karl. None of the men had ever met him, and identification was made from the photo image that Durrant had received over his cell phone. Committing the face to his memory Durrant had erased the photo.

All Durrant knew was that they were associates of the Hegre organization.

* * *

KARL DROVE DOWN the road, turning into the marine yard after showing his ID to the security guard at the gate. He was known as a regular in his position as a maintenance man working for one of the companies that serviced seagoing vessels using the Port Hedland facility. After a couple of minutes talking to the security guard, Karl drove on, along the dockside. He parked and hauled a couple of toolboxes from the back of his vehicle. One of the boxes contained the stolen diamonds that had been transported two thousand miles across the country by Durrant and his team.

As he made his way to one of the berthed ships, Karl acknowledged passing associates. He walked up a short gangway that allowed entry to the ship through an open cargo hatch, nodding to the crewman standing just inside.

“Just coming to fit that faulty pressure valve before you push off.”

The man nodded. “You know where to go.”

Karl nodded and continued on his way into the ship. He took a companionway that led belowdecks. Just before he reached the engine room he diverted and walked into the ship’s maintenance store. The guy in charge, known to Karl, took the stolen toolbox and vanished from sight behind the metal racks of parts where he opened the box, removed the heavy leather satchel holding the diamonds and placed it in a large metal locker. He returned to where Karl was waiting and handed back the toolbox, now considerably lighter. He had the replacement pressure valve ready, and Karl took it with him and left.

An hour later Karl left the ship and carried his toolboxes with him as he returned to his pickup. The toolboxes went into the back. Karl drove off the dock and picked up the road into Port Hedland.

In town he parked and sat behind the wheel as he made a quick phone call. When his contact picked up, he delivered the arranged confirmation.

“New pressure valve fitted.”

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER the ship left the harbor and headed out to sea. It was heading for Hong Kong and the harbor at Kowloon. When it docked a few days later, the consignment of diamonds was left in the locker while the ship was unloaded and the crew went ashore for a break. The crewman assigned to handle the diamonds would soon leave the ship and deliver them to the arranged place farther along the dock—a local fish cannery owned in part by Hegre, a legitimate business conglomerate that had a flourishing criminal element.

Lise Delaware received news of the imminent delivery. From Kowloon the satchel would be sent to Hegre’s agent in the Philippines. Once the deal had been completed and the money passed to Hegre the next part of the process would be negotiated and arrangements would be made for the contracted merchandise to get under way.

CHAPTER TWO

Washington, D.C.

Special Agent in Charge Drake Duncan stood at the window of his office in the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover Building. A gray drizzle of rain drifted past the glass. Dark clouds were coming in over the city. The weather matched Duncan’s mood.

He was in charge of the task force investigating the Hegre organization. It was still causing the FBI man sleepless nights. Since becoming involved in the virus investigation a while back, when he had first realized the reclusive nature of Hegre, Duncan had accepted that even the combined resources of the agency were having problems. Now, months following the original investigation, the FBI was seeing only scraps of information. Leads had taken them in a hopeful direction, only to fade away to nothing. He was beginning to understand just how complex the criminal group was. From what had come to light during the virus affair—the involvement of an FBI agent who had been bought off and the existence of a member of the CDC in Atlanta who had handed Hegre samples of the smallpox—Duncan had accepted he was combating a criminal conspiracy with a far-reaching network of contacts. Hegre bought and paid for the best help it could find. And it was obvious the organization was not held back by moral concerns. Hegre was in the business of making money. It didn’t make judgments on the consequences of its operations as long as it profited. It operated on a simple, cold blooded premise: if a venture made money Hegre was interested. Right now Duncan had a problem on his hands, which was the reason for the call he was making to the one man who could help him.

Matt Cooper.

Duncan was the first to accept that Cooper’s direct involvement in the Hegre-North Korea operation had resulted in the curtailing of the incident. Despite Cooper not being part of the FBI, or any agency Duncan knew about, the man obviously had top-ranking backup. And if it hadn’t been for the man’s selfless resistance, more people would have died and the lethal strain of adapted smallpox could have resulted in countless deaths.

SAC Drake Duncan was a dedicated agent, who had the strength of the FBI to back him. Yet here he was calling on a man who worked by a set of rules far beyond the FBI’s agenda. He was doing it because an agent was dead, another missing and Duncan was placed in the position of not trusting the people around him. It was a sad, but undeniable fact.

Hegre had breached the FBI previously. Duncan had the nagging feeling that might have happened again, because the dead agent—Ray Talbot—had been operating under deep cover, his actions sanctioned by Duncan himself, with very few people aware of the fact.

The FBI worked on a mandate of loyalty, with each and every agent sworn to uphold the law and deliver unbiased and corruption-free service. On the other side of the coin was human frailty, the probability that certain individuals could fall into the dark side of life. It had happened over the years, luckily on a small scale, but no organization was immune.

Duncan had built his team by handpicking each member. Yet even that did not preclude someone slipping inside who had a less-than-honest mandate. Ray Talbot had been working in the field under the charge of Duncan’s most trusted—and in this case there was no chance of any suspicion—team leader. Special Agent Sarah Mitchell, early thirties, was a young woman who had come up through the ranks as a Duncan protégée. Smart and capable, she had sailed through FBI training and once in the field had exhibited a natural resourcefulness in her work. Intuitive, she saw things that others might easily miss, and she picked up on the minutia of operating procedure with ease. She also had a willful nature that sometimes got the better of her. Not deliberately smart-mouthed, she could exchange banter with the best, and on more than one occasion her eagerness almost got the better of her.

Duncan found her refreshing. He would have willingly put himself on the line for her, knowing that in any situation she would always have his back. In terms of the physicality of FBI work she was hard to beat. Her marksmanship, with a variety of weapons, was always at the top of the score card.

He had put her in charge of the current phase of the Hegre investigation. She had taken a keen interest in the matter, to the point that Duncan had to remind her to treat it like any operation. He understood her frustration. Sarah Mitchell hated being beaten and no matter how sophisticated Hegre appeared to be, to Mitchell it was simply another criminal organization and as such she channeled her energy toward bringing it down. SAC Duncan had laid out her assignment, then given her free rein to run the operation on her own, with his overall supervision.

The past week had brought nothing. Duncan sensed, from her emailed reports and his talks with her via phone, that Mitchell was becoming frustrated at the lack of progress. And as time went by Duncan himself started to experience concern. In part that was because of his suspicion there might be a Hegre mole within the unit. He was searching to uncover evidence that would expose the traitor, hating the thought that Mitchell and her team might be in harm’s way.

He avoided voicing his concern. The problem with unearthing an insider was the undeniable fact that bringing his thoughts into the open might simply play into the guilty person’s hands. At worst he might find himself talking to the traitor without knowing. It was one of those situations where unburdening himself might come back to bite him. He needed to move slowly, keep his wits about him, and not show his hand.

But now he needed a presence on the case, an independent presence not part of the FBI, but with a feel for Hegre and the ability to move in ways that weren’t possible for Duncan’s people. A man he could trust.

Matt Cooper was free of any inside influence, a man who could move through the morass of regulations as he homed in on the perpetrators.